


Drawn To The Blood

by reysrose



Series: Saturn [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Active Shooter Situation, Angst, Bisexual Amy Santiago, Bisexual Jake Peralta, Bisexual Rosa Diaz, Blood, Blood Loss, Canon Divergence, Catholic Amy Santiago, Catholic Rosa Diaz, Episode: s05e20 Show Me Going, Established Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Rosa's fear of needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reysrose/pseuds/reysrose
Summary: A canon divergent take on "Show Me Going" in which Rosa takes a bullet and her partners worry. Established Jake/Rosa/Amy.
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago, Rosa Diaz/Jake Peralta, Rosa Diaz/Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Series: Saturn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724032
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	Drawn To The Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Surpriiiiiise?  
> I watched this episode recently and I felt things (anxiety It's anxiety I'm about to graduate college where I lived in a very scary town with a LOT of gun violence).  
> Additionally, I can't decide who I ship more so I made them a threesome. This will be a series.  
> Check me out on Tumblr at reyshxpe! I take prompts for b99, Reylo, Harlots, The 100 (gays and Linctavia only) and Zutara.

In the silence of the bullpen, Amy squeezes her eyes closed and balls her fists. She listens to the badge numbers being rattled off, and takes in the radiating heat of Jake’s presence behind her. She doesn’t recognize any badge numbers so far, but she can’t swallow down the sheer panic filling her chest. 

“3118, show me going.”

She knows the voice before she recognizes the badge number, and the panic drops into her stomach and she feels herself double over and flatten her palms on the desk in front of her. Jake sucks in a breath behind her and his hand rests, heavy, on the base of her neck. 

“3118? That’s...Rosa.”

Amy chokes back a sob, forcing herself to straighten up. 

“She’ll be fine,” someone says. This time, Amy can’t stop the tears, and they’re streaking her face before she knows what’s happening. 

“It’s Diaz,” Charles says, “She’s tough.” 

It doesn’t help. Amy wishes it did, but it doesn’t. She knows that Rosa is tough, that her girlfriend has made it through so much (prison comes to mind), but eventually even Rosa’s luck will run out. Amy just has to pray it isn’t today. 

She pulls her rosary beads from their place in her desk drawer when no one is looking at her and tucks them in her pocket, fiddling with them in her free time. She remembers Rosa complaining about the toilet and enlists Gina in helping her fix it. 

Jake brings pizza, and she realizes how hungry completely destroying an entire bathroom has made her. She quietly prays and crosses herself over her slice, and Jake squeezes her shoulder tightly. She only prays in public when she’s scared, and holy mother of Christ is she scared. There’s been no update on Rosa. Even after the shooters are down, no Rosa. Amy sneaks into the breakroom and does a decade, goes back to watching the elevator. 

She decides to try praying in Spanish, like it’ll work better than English. She thinks about the crucifix in Rosa’s nightstand, the La Morenita in their kitchen cabinet, the votives Jake doesn’t understand the point of but lights anyway when Amy is upset and exhausted. She thinks about the way Rosa looks when she’s cumming, head thrown back and hair tangled from Jake’s grip because Jake loves her hair, the column of her throat splashed with tiny bruises in the shape of Amy’s teeth. She bites her lip and clutches the beads. 

The elevator dings and Amy clutches the crucifix on the rosary so hard it bites into her palm, but it’s just Scully. Jake starts yelping at him, tired and stressed, when suddenly there’s a gravelly voice from behind her. Amy shoves her beads back in her pocket and stands up so fast her chair spins away from her across the bullpen, and throws herself into Rosa’s arms. 

Rosa grunts, arms wrapping around Amy’s back. She smells like blood and gunpowder and sweat, and Amy grabs her face and kisses her full on the mouth, tasting her own tears and stale coffee. There’s something wet on her shirt, soaking through the cotton, and Amy pulls away, looking at Rosa up and down but finding nothing. She pulls her shirt away from her body and sucks in a breath. Rosa is bleeding. Bleeding a lot, given how much blood has covered her NYPD t-shirt. Rosa looks down at it, then at herself. Her face goes white, and she stumbles away from Amy and toward Jake, one hand going to her lower abdomen.

“Jake,” she slurs, and Amy fumbles for her cell phone desperately. She has to call 911. Rosa is bleeding, and slurring, and in shock.

“Jake,” Rosa gasps out, and Amy dials 911 just in time to see Rosa’s knees buckle and Jake wrap an arm around her waist as her weight drops onto him. Rosa’s eyes roll toward Amy, who hands the phone off to someone else and helps Jake lower Rosa to the floor. Rosa grasps at her sleeve, head against Jake’s chest and mouth working. 

“I don’t feel so good,” Rosa croaks out, “Amy, I don’t- um- Amy-” 

“Shhh. Stay with me, okay?” Rosa nods as her face contorts in pain, and Amy goes to grasp at the hem of her shirt. Rosa slurs something incomprehensible into Jake’s chest, and Amy carefully slits the fabric up to Rosa’s bra. There’s a messy gunshot wound in the space between the waist of her jeans and where her Kevlar would end, blood leaking sluggishly from it. 

“Jake, we need to check for an exit wound. Will someone get me the first aid kit?” 

Rosa moans when they roll her, and to Amy’s relief there is an exit wound. It’s gaping and ragged at the edges, but looks like a clean through and through. That’s probably why she made it back to the precinct without collapsing- the heat of the bullet did a little cauterization as it blew through her abdomen. That doesn’t explain how she didn’t notice she got shot until she saw her own blood all over Amy’s shirt. 

“Good job, Rosa,” Amy says to her, cupping Rosa’s cheek. Rosa rolls her eyes toward Amy, clearly struggling to stay awake. Her face twists in pain again and then she cries out loudly. Amy looks down and sees Holt holding a wad of gauze against Rosa’s abdomen, one hand on her back. Jake is pressing her face to his shirt, murmuring in her ear. Everything is falling apart around her. The paramedics come out of the elevator. 

Rosa starts whimpering when the paramedic pulls out an IV needle, and Amy remembers how scared Rosa is of needles.  
“You’re okay, baby,” Amy tells her, gripping her hand hard to give her something to distract her. Rosa rolls her eyes toward the needle and moans, turning a little green. 

“Hey, eyes on me or Jake. Good girl. Jake, you good?”

“Yeah.”

He’s studiously avoiding the blood everywhere, looking at Rosa and only Rosa. Amy grimaces. Jake hates blood, and she and Rosa are covered in it. 

“I’ll go with her in the ambulance,” she tells him gently. He nods.

“I’ll pack a bag and meet you guys there.” 

She can’t sit in the back with Rosa because the paramedics need room to work, and sitting in the passenger seat makes her feel helpless. Rosa is moaning and crying out, clearly in pain. When she goes silent Amy nearly jumps over the seat, craning her head to look at Rosa. She’s unconscious, but her heart rate is still steady and the paramedics don’t look any more rushed than they had in the precinct. 

“How’s she doing?” Amy asks anyway.

“She’s stable,” the paramedic tells her, “But she’s lost a lot of blood and she’ll probably go straight to OR.” 

Amy clutches at her beads again, relieved she’d shoved them in her pocket, and thinks about Rosa some more. 

When Rosa wakes up, there’s something over her face and she’s on something lumpy and uncomfortable. She’s also freezing, her stomach aching something fierce. She grunts, rolling her head to the side. Amy’s face swims into her vision and Rosa tries to smile at her, but she’s too tired. 

“Jake?” She croaks.

“One person in the recovery room, baby,” Amy soothes. Her face is blotchy and her eyes are swollen. She’s wearing her glasses, and her hair is in a sloppy ponytail. She looks like Amy at home, and Rosa grimaces. She feels like she’s floating, and her throat hurts. She’s thirsty, and she sees a cup and reaches for it with one shaking hand. Amy gives her a couple sips, putting the cup down and draping a cool cloth on her forehead. 

“Shit,” she rasps, pain searing through her nerve endings. She feels her muscles clench and grinds her teeth together. She needs Jake. She needs painkillers.

“Hurts,” she forces out, trying to clutch at her abdomen. Amy pins her hand to the bed and then presses a button. Rosa groans, head spinning, as a nurse rushes over. Something is injected into the IV line in the back of her hand, the skin around the needle already bruising. The pain meds take over her body fast, and then she’s looking up at Amy’s face but seeing her mom instead. She knows her brain is tricking her, that she’s high beyond belief on anesthesia and narcotics, but she can’t help herself. 

“Mama,” She mumbles, “Amy, where’s my mom?” 

“Go to sleep,” Amy tells her, flipping the cool cloth over. Rosa shivers, and someone drapes another blanket over her. She mumbles for her mom again. 

“We’ll call her, okay? Get some rest, Rosa.” 

She really tries to stay awake, she does, but Amy is doing that thing with her hair that makes her whole body melt into a puddle, and the morphine is starting to kick in (she knows it’s morphine because ketamine makes her puke, and of course Amy would remember to tell them that even amidst her mass panic regarding Rosa bleeding everywhere) so she’s starting to float in a tired half coma of soft comfort. Amy combs her fingers through her hair and starts singing to her in Spanish, and the game is over. She’s out before they even try to move her bed into another room, and when she wakes up again it’s to her head throbbing and her mouth tasting like something died in it. She grunts tiredly, running her tongue over her teeth, and forces her eyes open with a whine in the back of her throat. 

“Hey,” It’s Jake, not Amy. She wishes it was both of them, because the pain is starting to rip through her and she digs the back of her head into the pillow. 

“You okay, babe?” Jake murmurs, his hand resting on her forehead. She grits her teeth.

“Fine.” She’s still on oxygen and she focuses on the feeling of cold air entering her nose and measures her exhales, counting like Amy taught her. In for 3, hold for 4, out for 7. Her back spasms around the exit wound and she bites down on her lip. Jake pushes his fingers through her loose hair, reaching for the call button.

“No,” she grunts, hand shaking as she pushes him away. Jake rolls his eyes and starts texting someone. It better be Amy. 

“Rosa, you need something for the pain.” 

“I’m fine,” she snarls, but she is very much not, and Jake presses the call button as she lets out a wordless cry of protest. She rolls her eyes at him. He kisses her cheek. 

“Ames is on her way from the waiting room,” he whispers, as a nurse comes in. She presses her cold stethoscope to Rosa’s chest beneath her hospital gown, and tightens a manual cuff around her arm for her blood pressure, even though there’s a mechanized cuff checking it what feels like every other second. The IV in her hand stings, and she aches to tear it out. She settles for fiddling with the plastic shield over it, picking at the rolling edges where the adhesive has worn off.

“Don’t do that, honey,” the nurse tells her as she pulls the blankets away from her. The head of the bed begins to rise, and Rosa makes eye contact with the nurse and picks at the plastic some more, scowling. A headrush hits hard when the bed stops moving and she moans and hunches over involuntarily, trying to breathe through the dizziness. She can’t get her head between her knees and she’s not sure it would help even if she could. Rosa focuses on not throwing up, barely realizing that her gown is open in the back. Jake lets her squeeze his hand as tightly as possible and she goes back to her carefully measured breathing, leaning into it when-

“OW! Fuck, what the fuck-”

“We have to change your dressings,” the nurse says, “It’s gonna hurt some, hon.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Rosa grumbles, as what is definitely alcohol burns against her torn up back. She crushes Jake’s hand in her grip, and the door opens as the nurse leans her back to get at the entrance wound. She’s been shot before, but never in the abdomen. It’s a special level of hell. She screams through her teeth, ripping her hand out of Jake’s to dig her fingernails into her palms. Jake strokes her hair and then-

“Hey, deep breaths. Good, good,” Amy murmurs, rubbing her thumb over Rosa’s collarbones as the nurse tapes new gauze to her front and Jake eases her back onto the mattress. She’s very much over the hospital, and she’s been in it for like, maybe 30 hours. 

“Get me out of here,” Rosa grunts, trying to force herself to sitting and failing. Her arms are shaking and the muscles are tense and achy. She hates feeling weak, hates the fog from the pain meds she realizes Jake gave her when she was distracted. She snarls at him. He grins at her. 

“You’re gonna be here at least a couple days,” Amy tells her, holding a cup to her lips. Rosa takes a few sips of water, “you’re not maintaining your oxygen levels well, and the bullet did a little damage to your intestines.”

“Gross.”  
She’s in the hospital for a week straight. She’s fucking frustrated, because when she tries not to take pain meds she’s fighting back screams until Amy literally presses the pump for her. The oxygen is off by the second day, thank God. Her entire hand is bruised from the IV, and four days in the vein blows. 

Luckily, Holt is there with her when it happens, reading some boring ass magazine while she streams Chopped on her laptop. She’s exhausted, because they’re making her do laps around the halls. Her abdomen aches, her stitches itching. She reaches to scratch them with her needle hand, and the vein blows. It’s like the most intense bruise she’s ever felt, and it’s instant. She lets out an extremely undignified yelp, and Holt calls for a nurse. 

The nurse comes in to see her trying to stand up, clinging to the bed rail as pain sears through her and her head spins. Rosa gives her a weak thumbs up.

“The IV gave up! I’m gonna go ahead and sign myself out if that’s cool-”

“Absolutely not!” Holt snaps. The nurse rolls her eyes.

“Detective, you can’t keep trying to sign yourself out.” 

Besides the blown vein and the constant pain in her stomach, the hospital is quite possibly the most boring place she’s ever been, and she’s been on stakeouts with Scully. She rolls her eyes up at Amy on day 5, about 5 minutes after the morphine kicks in, and remembers very vividly that she’d asked for her mom in the recovery room. She cringes. 

“Amy?”

“Hmm?” Amy asks, looking up from her crossword. Rosa grins. Amy is Amy, no matter what. She shudders, then takes a deep breath.

“I asked about my mom, didn’t I?”

Amy’s face closes off, and Rosa pushes herself up to a more stable seat. The stitches in her back tug and she twists her mouth and settles herself back down. Amy gently places her hand on the side of Rosa’s neck, coaxing her to make eye contact. 

“Yes. You did. We called her, Rosa, we tried-” 

“But she didn’t want to come.” Rosa whispers. She swipes at her cheeks, pushing tears away before they can fall. Amy presses a kiss to her temple.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Don’t be,” Rosa mumbles, “It’s not your fault she didn’t come, and it was a long shot, but I really wish she was here.”

“I know,” Amy whispers, “I know.” 

When she’s finally discharged, limping to the car in a hoodie and sweats, basically hunched over like Quasimodo because she refuses to use a cane or walker until the pain lets up and she’s more stable, even the fact that New York smells like urine can’t upset her, and normally it makes her wrinkle her nose. Amy sits with her in the backseat of the car, letting Rosa use her as a support. She walks into the apartment and immediately flops face first onto the couch with a groan. 

“Thank god,” she says, face smushed into a pillow, “If either of you ever make me go back to the hospital I’ll gut you with a spoon.”

“You have a followup appointment next tuesday,” Amy tells her, sliding Rosa’s legs into her lap.

“Jake, find me a spoon.” 

It’s good to finally be home.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a LOT of catholicism in here (Amy is Cuban and Rosa is either Mexican or Argentinian I am geniunly unsure because Stephanie Beatriz is Argentinian either way they're both Latinx so I made them catholic BECAUSE I CAN) and I am irish catholic so I thought I'd stick some links in there to make some of it more clear  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosary   
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Votive_candle


End file.
